


Tiger's Hunt

by alachat



Series: It's a small, small world [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Haikyuu!! Manga Spoilers, M/M, Yaku Week 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:14:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25782709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alachat/pseuds/alachat
Summary: Yaku is an open book, both by design and by choice. He’s frank and he doesn’t mince words. He’s opinionated and he wants to speak his mind. He’s expressive and he doesn’t hide himself. He talks easily of losses and wins, of hardships and triumphs, of injuries and medals. He isn’t afraid to look, to sound, to be vulnerable. This is how Yaku gets close to people: by giving a part of himself first.So when the claws come for the deeper part of his heart, Tooru lets them.Tooru talks sartorial choices with Yaku over drinks at the airport.
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru & Yaku Morisuke, Oikawa Tooru/Yaku Morisuke
Series: It's a small, small world [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1844419
Comments: 13
Kudos: 77
Collections: Yaku Week 2020 Collection





	Tiger's Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday, my favourite libero.

When Tooru lands, the tiger dives.

The ball has already flown past the net and into the arms of Japan's libero. He drops his knees and swallows all the force and velocity that Tooru has packed in the serve with feline ease. The ball rises from his arms to where Tobio is standing in a perfect arc. Argentina doesn't even have time to fully switch to defensive mode when Ojiro punches the ball straight down onto their court.

The stands explode in cheers. Tooru takes a deep breath to shake off the lost point. He looks across the net searching for the man in the red uniform who has tamed his serve into subservience. Brown eyes lit with fire find his first. A smirk blooms and suddenly all he can hear is the silence of a tiger on the prowl.

The referee sounds his whistle and Shouyou flies to serve. Bas keeps the ball airborne. A brief glance at Japan and Tooru knows he can tear their block apart. On the court, blockers are prey for him to toy with. 

He signals to his hitters then launches his attack. As expected, Japan's block take his bait. With the blockers a step behind, Ivi's legendary line shot is free to score. 

Then something happens. At the apex of his jump, Ivi loses heart. Tooru can see him falter before hitting the ball with too much haste and not enough care. The spike goes out of bounds. Japan scores again. On the other side of the net, Japan's libero smirks once more, brown eyes ablaze with the delight of a victor who has broken his opponents' hearts without lifting a finger.

It doesn't take Tooru long to realise how his opposite has fallen prey to the silent roar of the tiger in red. 

He closes his eyes and lets red and brown fill his mind. 

_Game on, heartbreaker_

\---

Yaku Morisuke is a man to be reckoned with. At the age of 20, he was scouted by the Russians after only a one-year stint in the V.League. He might be volleyball short but on the court he towers over giants with his presence. His teammates fly high because they have him on the ground guarding their backs. His opponents lose sight of him at first because he's never flashy with his plays; the moment they notice him is also the moment he brings them down to their knees.

But the most unnerving thing about Yaku Morisuke is that he flies internationally in a three piece suit. 

Tooru is waiting for his flight at the international terminal of Haneda airport when Yaku calls out to him. 

"Good afternoon, Argentina." 

The voice is strange, the blue three piece startles him, but the smirk is familiar. 

"Good afternoon to you too, Japan," Tooru replies in kind. 

"It's been a while since the Olympics," Yaku's voice is perhaps a shade too merry for a chance meeting with an opponent. "Where are you off to?"

"Home." The other one. The one Tooru has chosen. Yaku's smirk doesn't go away. "What about you?" Maybe he has a meeting somewhere close, like South Korea. The suit then would make more sense.

"Ekaterinburg," Yaku answers casually. The suit makes zero sense.

"In Russia?" Tooru cannot but raise his voice in awe. He's almost breathless just from looking at the half-Windsor knot of Yaku's indigo tie. 

"Where else? I've been based there for a nearly a decade."

Tooru finds himself unable to tear his eyes away from Yaku. He has a sudden urge to rub his eyes, to pinch himself, to make sure that he's not dreaming and the tie, the jacket, the waistcoat in front of him are not fragments of his travel-weary mind. Who would wear all of those on a 10-hour flight and more?

As if he could read minds, Yaku bursts into laughter. "I'm used to wearing suits while travelling. They are not that uncomfortable."

"You cannot be serious," Tooru is now too aware of his plain T-shirt, faded jeans, and beat up sneakers. 

"I am. Trust me," Yaku's laugh fades into a wide grin.

For a nick of a second Tooru feels that he has no choice but to put all his trust in Yaku Morisuke and his brown eyes and his prim and proper suit. The way Yaku beckons trust just by saying the word is so simple, so ridiculously easy. It baffles him, and his brain races to find a reason. 

Maybe it's because Tooru knows him on the court, knows how breathtakingly perfect he is when he bumps spikes and receives serves, knows how the ground is his domain and how his teammates never look down because they trust that he is there, right behind them, always ready.

Maybe it's the formal attire, the facade of authority. Tooru has to admit that Yaku wears the suit well, with his light brown hair gelled up and his chest held high. The slim fit gives hints of the defined muscles underneath, the jacket nips at the waist to highlight his figure, the trousers show off the athletic thighs and calves with class abundant. With Yaku it's the man that makes the suit.

Or maybe there's a little bit of magic here in this big white hall where paths cross once and may never again, the kind of magic that points of departures alway have, the kind of magic that makes people more open to bright grins and affable greetings from not-quite strangers. 

Yaku wakes him from his reverie, "Oikawa- _kun_ , what time is your flight?"

"In 4 hours. I'm always early."

"Mine's around then too," Yaku's grin stretches wider. Tooru thinks he knows what's coming. "What do you say we grab something to drink?"

It must be magic, if the way Tooru accepts the invitation without a second thought is anything to go by.

\---

Tigers don't chase their prey. They prefer to sneak up on the poor animal, getting as close to it as possible. Then, they pounce.

Conversations with Yaku flow easy. They pursue the same career, albeit on two different continents. They have a common circle of friends and acquaintances, whose tales of adolescent bravado they are only too willing to divulge. They share a passion for volleyball strong enough to connect strange hearts and blur all reservations.

Yaku is an open book, both by design and by choice. He’s frank and he doesn’t mince words. He’s opinionated and he wants to speak his mind. He’s expressive and he doesn’t hide himself. He talks easily of losses and wins, of hardships and triumphs, of injuries and medals. He isn’t afraid to look, to sound, to be vulnerable. This is how Yaku gets close to people: by giving a part of himself first. 

So when the claws come for the deeper part of his heart, Tooru lets them. 

“Can I ask you a more personal question? You don’t have to answer, of course.”

“Of course,” Tooru echos, but his mind's already made up. 

"Why didn't you return to play for Japan?"

Right at the jugular. Tooru doesn't frown. He hasn't at this question for a while. 

"Is this the main reason you reach out to me?" He just wants to raise the tension up. To spark charges, like when they first met.

"I'm sorry," Yaku doesn't sound too contrite. "It's just — I've heard so much about you from the guys in the national team. I couldn't help but be — interested."

"What a question to get to know someone though," Tooru tests the tension between them.

"Might as well go straight for the heart."

The faint blush is becoming on Yaku's face, but it's the steady gaze in those brown eyes that keeps him entranced.

"I made a promise to a close friend, that I will chase my goals no matter where it takes me." He thinks back to a night of defeat, not his first and not his last. It was autumn, the beginning of the end. The night breeze dried his tears. A fist bump steeled his resolve.

The gaze remains. "How does the Argentinian blue feel?"

"I get used to it, the way you get used to your suits," Tooru grins. He loves returning the ball to the other side of the court. 

It takes Yaku a second to breath a chuckle. Tooru likes very much how Yaku looks when he concedes the point. 

It's Tooru's turn to serve. "Why did you return to play for Japan?" Yaku is brilliant. The Russians would have rolled out the red carpet for him. 

Yaku takes the last sip of his coffee while Tooru anticipates all the possible answers. There are lofty ideals: patriotism, love for his homeland. Tooru doesn't think they suit Yaku. There are romantic reasons: childhood dreams of wearing red on the world stage, inspirations given wings by chance. There are comic excuses: he might have desperately wanted to claim the nickname _Ryujin Nippon_ , "Japan Dragon God". 

Yaku locks eyes with him, a grin splitting his face in half. Tooru knows he is nowhere close to the mark. 

"I made a promise to a close friend, that we will win together." 

Tooru isn't the only volleyball player here, and Yaku will make sure that he remembers this fact.

Thrills chase a laugh out of him. The ghost of an Olympics match where blue met red puts his heart to a canter. He decides to ride on: "You do look better in red."

The blush on Yaku's face deepens.

Tooru crumbles his empty paper cup and tosses it to the trash can. He checks his phone: there are still two and a half hours until he has to board.

"What do you say we grab something stronger than coffee to drink?"

Yaku is only a shade lighter than a cherry now, but he doesn't avert his gaze, never will. Tooru isn't wrong; he really looks good in red.

The familiar smirk returns. A silent roar rings in Tooru's ears. There's magic in the air.

"Game on," _heartbreaker_. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> I decided to write a fic for Yaku's birthday on the day itself. Thank God for time zones. 
> 
> This is also a very loose interpretation of YakuWeek2020 Day 1 Prompt 2: Cat, because I found out about the week and its prompt on their very first day when I almost finished this fic. You can probably see a trend here already.
> 
> The initial inspiration for this fic is Marina's "How to be a Heartbreaker", but after around 300 words it spiralled into...well, this. 
> 
> If you fancy a chat, or just want to witness my fraying mind as a result of HQ!!, I live on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/alachat_). Or [CC](https://curiouscat.me/alachat_). If you do drop by, thank you so much.


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